


Sound and Fury

by fangirl42



Series: A Dog's Tale [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Other, dwarves and their pesky politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl42/pseuds/fangirl42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oghren joins the Companions and Rowan discovers new smells. Some good and others not so good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound and Fury

It rains often in the jungle of Serehon, daily downpours that leave moisture hanging heavy in the air. Sometimes the wind howls and lightening lashes. When these gales tear through, they bring back memories, recollections of people and places – some pleasant and some painful. Tonight, while the wind wails and electricity fills the air, I dream, and dreaming remember the last companion my Boy found. 

I call him the Storm. 

We meet him in Orzamar, home of the stout people. The Boy hates his time underground; performing endless stupid tasks for a man he worries might be responsible for the deaths of his brothers. Our first encounter with the Storm is less a meeting and more the witness to personal disaster. Drunk, angry and belligerent, he argues in the streets, uncaring who sees or hears his tirade. He smells of ale tinged with the slightest whiff of sulphur laced with madness and he instantly fascinates me.

I find the dwarven city enthralling. I am surrounded by scents different from anything I have ever encountered on the surface – the acridness of molten lava, the sharp dry scent of stone and the odd sweetness of nug. I feel like a pup again, following my nose anywhere and everywhere. I make quite a stir since most of the stout folk have never seen a Mabari. Considering that I can look most of them in the eye barely lifting my head, I suppose they may have reason to find me a bit imposing. Or that I may think them at first to be children. Still, that one tavern maid doesn’t need to scream and hit me on the head with her serving platter. I am only being friendly.

The stout folk are an odd bunch, at best but, of them all, the Storm is the oddest. He confronts the Boy and demands to accompany us when we venture into the Deep Roads. His breath actually knocks the Boy back a step and I see the Sister cover her nose and grimace. Despite the reek of ale, I am more intrigued by the anger I smell rolling off him in waves.

As intriguing as the city is to me, the Deep Roads are not. The scent of darkspawn taint is almost overwhelming once we venture far enough. The weight of the stone above our heads is tangible as we travel deeper in the strange half-light of luminescent fungus covering the cave walls. The further we go, the more all of us, save the Storm, become prickly and drained by the strangeness of it all.

We search for the Storm’s mate. Much of his anger revolves around her and those he feels abandoned her to the darkspawn. With each passing day travelling through what was once a kingdom to rival any on the surface, the Storm’s sorrow and frustration seeps through; not only for his mate but for his people, as well. The stout folk have lost much to the darkspawn, more than any race on the surface fully understands. They fight the darkspawn always, every year a battle to maintain their city. 

As desolate as the lost thaigs and cities of the dwarves are, what lies ahead for us is almost impossible to describe. For we find the Storm’s mate and she is truly lost. Lost to the madness of ambition and willing to sacrifice everything upon the altar of personal glory. I smell the madness on her when we finally meet. It is a sharp, bitter scent that raises my hackles. Until we find her, the Storm is reluctant to give up hope. Despite what the mad one says to us, couched in rhyme and insanity, he hopes. When that hope dies, it is a hard thing to witness.

Die it does, however, once we see the thing that once was a dwarven maid. I cannot describe the wrongness that hangs like a cloud unseen around the grotesquery that is the Broodmother. We battle that monstrosity and her minions for what seems like days. The Boy cries out in anguish and wrath when he sees the Mate wrapped in the arms of the beast, shaken like a toy. If it were not for the old Mage, the Mate would have died that day. 

When the battle is done, we are all tired, bruised, bleeding and sore in our hearts, none more so than the Storm. The Boy and the First are shaken, thinking of their sister Wardens and the fate that awaits them in the Deep Roads. 

When we find the Storm’s mate and battle her for control of the Anvil, he is livid. His anger at the Boy rolls off him in waves so strong it is a wonder anyone still stands. Yet, he picks up his axe and he fights on our side. Despite his anger, he knows her madness cannot be rewarded.

When it is over and we return to the city victorious, if such a word can be used to describe the horrors we face, the Boy finishes what he began and places the Prince on the throne. When the newly crowned fool orders the death of his rival, the Boy is angry. He speaks out for leniency and then leaves.

The Storm leaves with us and our return to the surface is bittersweet. The air is clean and cold and we all breathe deeply for the first time in weeks. The Mate, despite his dislike for the cold, nearly hums with pleasure. The Sister begins a song of joy and links arms with the First. Together, they lead the way and all but the Boy and the Storm follow.

The Boy waits as the Storm adjusts to a sky that goes on forever. While we rejoice at the weight that has lifted from us with our escape from the darkness, he learns a new paradigm. He does so quickly and with his usual crass wit.

As we continue our journey towards the end, the Storm finds a way to insult nearly everyone. I find it amusing. So does the Boy. And he drinks. I watch him often, wondering where he hides the alcohol. The old Mage tries to take it away from him. The Boy manages to find more for him, but only the best. Not that the Storm particularly cares – he will drink anything. He bets the First’s uncle, the nice one, that he can drink a barrel of pickle juice. He does. His piss smells of vinegar for days afterwards. I find it immensely amusing. 

No one else does.

Thinking of the Storm reminds me of the end, for he was with us only in the last weeks as we trudged ever closer towards the final battle. He fights at the Boy's side and I remember the anger and hurt I feel when the Boy leaves me behind and how the Storm reminds us all to stand proudly.

Though most look at the Storm and see a drunk, the Boy sees something else. Underneath the anger and the ale, the Storm watches. He is crafty and his rudeness a cover. Often, the Storm uses his drunkenness to distract others, to ease tension or to call attention to himself and away from the Boy. He uses this skill for the Boy on more than one occasion. He even manages to draw the old Mage and her disapproval away from the Boy and the Mate. The Storm stands guard, keeping away those who would keep them apart. For this alone, I am forever grateful. 

I slip further into the Fade and dream of the Boy and his Mate. They look for each other, in the Beyond. When it comes my time to join the Boy again, I will help him find his Mate.

Not today, but soon. My time draws near.

**Author's Note:**

> The Storm = Oghren


End file.
